“I am very glad to welcome you among us, Mr. McCann,” he said to that individual when he shook the pocket-hunter’s wrinkled claw. “Wal, it’s all right, I reckon,” muttered Andy. “In a meetin’ you’ve got to stand for most anybody droppin’ in. But that old rip,” nodding toward the distant Steve, “would look a heap better ’cordin’ to my idee in jail than at church.” “We must be charitable, Mr. McCann,” said the parson, moving toward the other prospector. Old Steve was quite as bitter in his comment. But he added something, too, that gave Hunt pause. “It seems a good deal like old times. I used to go to church reg’lar, onc’t,” said Siebert. “But I miss something, parson—I sure do.” “What’s that?” asked Hunt smiling. “Let alone I never expected to see that old has-been at meetin’—an’ I don’t reckon he’s come for any good—I see you don’t look jest like a preacher ought to look. Say, don’t ministers dress different no more from other folks? You might be a banker or a gambler as far as your coat goes to show.” The blunt criticism shocked Hunt not a little. Up to this time he had carefully eschewed clerical dress. He began to wonder if, after all, he was not making a mistake. Dick Beckworth was not on the street when the parson and his sister went back to the hotel. In fact Dick had slipped out very soon after the meeting ceased and was then in conference with Boss Tolley in the little office at the end of the long bar in the Grub Stake. “Well,” said Tolley, eagerly, “did you see her?” “Sure as sure.” “Is it her?” demanded the dive keeper, grinning like a wolf. “It sure is. It’s her that was Betty Hunt.” “Dad burn it! And she paradin’ ’round here like an unmarried woman. Dick, we got that parson on the hip.” CHAPTER XXVIII—CATASTROPHE No more snow or ice had followed that first sharp, furious blizzard; but with the higher temperature had come heavy rainstorms which the natives declared were quite unseasonable. The rivers were bank full. The lower end of Main Street was washed by the water from both Forks. Several families had been obliged to move into the higher part of the town. But the flood had not driven Mother Tubbs and her little family out of their home. The wise old woman did not know just why Nell Blossom sang no more at the dance hall; but in her mind she knew that “suthin’ was workin’ on that gal.” Meanwhile she proceeded to “work on” Sam as usual. Rocking on her back porch with the vista of dreary yards under her eye, but the rugged beauties of the Topaz Range in the distance, she philosophized as usual on all things both spiritual and mundane. Sam was pottering about a broken table that she had convinced him he must mend before he left the premises for a stroll into the town, it being Saturday afternoon. “I must say, too, that it seems as peaceful as Sunday back in Missouri—or pretty near,” Mother Tubbs observed. “Things is changed yere in Canyon Pass. Ye must admit it, Sam.”